


An Intolerable Kindness

by musical_emjay



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musical_emjay/pseuds/musical_emjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years old, an orphan, Edith first comes to Allerdale Hall just as the deadly winds of winter begin to whip in moaning gusts across the hills. Just in time for the roads to close for the season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Intolerable Kindness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).



Ten years old, an orphan, Edith first comes to Allerdale Hall just as the deadly winds of winter begin to whip in moaning gusts across the hills. Just in time for the roads to close for the season. 

Baronet Christopher Sharpe brings her home, towing her along behind him like a pet. She is a wide-eyed, silent child, pale as the snow and stunned into muteness by her parents’ passing, much unlike herself.

She was vibrant once, inquisitive and smart. In her fugue she barely recalls being that person, holding fast to Baronet Sharpe’s hand and letting it lead her across the sea, across a new land, over the threshold of Allerdale. It feels like entering the belly of some great, echoing beast - her chest clenches tight, her neck prickles, suddenly chilled to the bone. She wonders how she could possibly be so willing, to see a place so cold as home, to follow blindly where she might have once dug in her heels and screamed. 

There is a woman waiting for them, gaunt and severe, eyes like two burning coals sunk deep into her face. Her gown is a profusion of sombre black lace, nipped in tight at the throat and wrists, as though she were in mourning. When they arrive a sharp gasp of wind follows them into the front hall, but she barely seems to notice it, all her attention focused on her husband who has returned at long last. She does not spare a glance for Edith.

“Christopher,” the woman says suddenly, her voice snapping through the bluster of their arrival. “What have you brought home to us?”

Baronet Sharpe pulls Edith close to his side, pats her roughly on the head. 

“Beatrice,” Sharpe replies, and the name is a rebuke, coated in false cheer. “What kind of welcome is that? Poor Edith will think us beastly. Fetch the children, they should meet their new sister.”

Beatrice’s porcelain cheek twitches, as though some fierce emotion were only just held in check. 

“Sister?” 

“Yes, of course. Surely you received my letters?”

“I did,” Beatrice says, and nothing more. The heavy weight after her words is filled with scorn and disbelief.

Sharpe begins to stroke Edith’s hair. Her skin crawls. 

He has not touched her before this, and it is strange and out of character for the man she knew in Buffalo, the man who drank merrily with her father and charmed her mother, but kept a careful distance from Edith all the while. 

“Her parents were dear friends of mine during my stay in America,” he says. “Carter and Angelica Cushing.”

Beatrice strides forward, hands smoothing down the front of her gown. “Ah yes, the Cushings. Great titans of industry. Rather rich, if I do recall correctly.” She stops in front of Edith, reaches out to stroke her cheek with the back of her hand. Her skin is like ice. “And where are they now?”

Edith feels trapped, between them. There is another conversation happening that she cannot hear, and it frightens her for reasons she cannot comprehend.

“Passed. A tragic accident, and poor Edith left all alone. She has no other family, Beatrice. What else could I do but offer to take her in as one of our own?”

There is a long silence. 

“Another mouth to feed,” Beatrice murmurs. “Another child underfoot. What a precious gift you bring me, dear husband, after being so long away.” 

She is so dreadfully still as she says it, uncaring of what effect her words might have. Christopher scoffs, but Edith can feel where his grip on her shoulder goes tight.

“If you cannot see the benefit of her addition to our household, darling wife, I clearly cannot help you.”

He suddenly thrusts Edith into Beatrice’s arms, starts shrugging off his heavy overcoat, removes his hat. Edith is caught in a hard embrace - she buries her nose in Beatrice’s skirts, frozen with fear and uncertainty. She does not understand what is going on, how everything has changed so quickly.

“Take her to the nursery. I have work to do.”

And with that, Christopher Sharpe sweeps from the room, disappearing.

Beatrice takes a deep, slow breath, and touches the crown of Edith’s head tentatively, like the motion is foreign to her. Edith herself is breathless, missing her own mother with a startling clarity and sharpness. She can remember being in her mother’s arms, how warm she was, the soft rose scent of her perfume. There is no softness in Beatrice. 

“Well, come along, child, “ she says finally, and it feels like a death knell, a door closing. She pushes Edith away and then begins to ascend the grand staircase, dour black skirts lifted. Edith follows, eyes on her feet as they take one step after another, because there is nothing else to do.

**

Thomas and Lucille Sharpe are nothing like their parents, or so it appears at first.

Beatrice foists Edith on them with barely a word of explanation before leaving just as quickly as she arrived, the nursery door clicking shut behind her. Edith stands where she was placed, almost too afraid to move, and the two children stare back at her with brimming curiosity. They’re both dressed in fading finery, like two dolls never played with, their lustre no longer quite so bright. Edith feels out of place among them, but perhaps she too will one day be like they are, leashed and leeched.

“Who are you?” the girl asks, holding her younger brother close. 

Edith curtsies awkwardly, her limbs stiff with cold. “Edith Cushing,” she whispers.

“Why are you here?” 

Edith stares at her feet. “I don’t know.”

The boy breaks free from his sister’s grip, coming closer. The girl’s hands spasm, as if she wished to snatch him back. 

“You’re so rude, Lucy,” he admonishes, and executes an equally awkward bow. “Hello, Edith. My name’s Thomas, and this is my sister, Lucille. Welcome to Allerdale Hall.” 

His eyes twinkle as he smiles. Edith feels a twinge of relief, the ache in her chest starting to ease.

“Will you be staying long?” Thomas asks, guileless and sweet.

Edith’s throat closes abruptly, the relief disappearing. Her vision blurs. “I…don’t know.”

“Her parents are dead,” Lucille says coldly. The words are like a slap. “I remember her name from father’s letters. He’s brought her here to live with us. She’s very rich.”

Thomas frowns, brows furrowing. “How awful.” 

He reaches out, taking Edith’s hand where it hangs limp at her side, holds it between his own. Leaning in close, he speaks quietly. “I’m so sorry about your family. You can be our sister now, if you want. Do you like inventions?”

If Edith weren’t still herself, deep down inside under all her grief, she might have missed the sharp intake of breath, the emotion that crosses Lucille’s face at Thomas’ declaration. _Sister_ , so easy, like it cost him nothing at all to make such an offer to a stranger.

But she does see it, and too the way that Lucille’s expression goes blank quickly after, hiding what had been so briefly revealed. But Edith is young, and does not quite understand, and so returns Thomas’ earlier smile, feeling hope begin to bloom in her again.

That is the first day.

**

That night, Edith is awoken by a scream. It’s thin, piercing, like an animal caught in a snare.

She jerks upright in bed, heart pounding, and sees that both Thomas and Lucille have heard it too. In the dim light of the nursery they stare at each other, breathing hard.

There is shouting, suddenly, a man and a woman’s voice. Thudding and scraping. The sounds are strangely amplified, echoing up through the attic floor, accompanied by the howling wind in a ghostly cacophony. 

“Lucy,” Thomas whispers. “ _Lucy_.”

Lucille is out of her own bed like a flash, climbing into her brother’s and wrapping around him before Edith can blink. She rocks him back and forth slowly, and Edith feels strange watching it happen, something in her stomach squirming to life. 

More thudding, and then the nursery door bursts open. Christopher Sharpe stands silhouetted in the doorway, holding a lit candelabra in one hand. 

“Lucille!” he barks. “Come and help your mother. She’s fallen and hurt herself.”

Lucille does as she’s told without fuss. She leaves Thomas and shrugs into a long, flowing dressing gown, following her father out of the room, the flickering candlelight going with them.

In the wake of their departure, Thomas shudders. Edith can’t see his face clearly but wants to comfort him, or be comforted herself, she doesn’t quite know. She feels raw all over, skin prickly and sensitive.

“Go back to sleep, Edith,” Thomas says eventually, and lays back down, pulling up the bedclothes to his chin. “Lucy will know what to do.”

Edith has no choice but to believe him. She is not brave enough yet to say otherwise.

Perhaps she will be again, someday. She does not know.

**

There is only a single moment, the morning after, that offers any clarity.

Thomas is brooding, sat at his small work table in the corner and tinkering. He seems to have lost whatever friendly spirit possessed him the day before, and ignores Edith completely while she wanders around the nursery, exploring. 

She’s curled up in a corner reading a book when Lucille suddenly storms back in, looking fraught and dishevelled. Thomas goes to her immediately, holding her up when she starts to sag.

“A fall,” she spits out, breathless. “A _fall_. As if he thinks I’m simple. He’s a monster, Thomas. A _brute_.”

Thomas looks stricken. “What’s happened?”

“He broke her leg. I don’t know how he did it, but he did. He called a doctor to set the bone but won’t pay him enough to stay.” 

She takes a deep, shaky breath, clutching at her brother with desperate hands, and seems all at once to be a very different girl from the one who welcomed Edith so callously the day before. Perhaps she doesn’t realize Edith is here. Perhaps this is her true self, a bruised and battered child at her wit’s end, clutching out for whatever comfort is available to her. Thomas holds her just as tightly in turn, his expression bleak but not surprised - and that is the worst of it.

Edith watches the two of them together, out of the way and unnoticed in her corner, and feels horror sink deep under her skin. Her father loved her mother, would never have dreamt of laying a finger upon her in anger. The idea of such violence is so foreign that she cannot grasp of the edges of it, cannot comprehend it.

“Father has tasked me with caring for mother in her recovery,” Lucille continues shakily. “I cannot _bear_ it, Thomas…”

Edith rises and goes to them, feeling somehow emboldened by her fear. “It’s okay, I will take care of Thomas for you,” she says, fighting for strength in her voice.

But Lucille flinches, clearly surprised by her presence. She stares at Edith, eyes burning.

“This is none of your concern,” she hisses. “And what could you do for him that I cannot? You’re a stupid child!” 

“Don’t be so cruel, Lucy!” Thomas cries, and Lucille flinches again. Her mouth twists, crumpling in pain.

She wrenches herself away from Thomas, fleeing the room. Thomas stares after her forlornly, his whole body trembling as though he wished to run after her. Edith wishes he would simply let her go.

“It’s okay,” she says again, and takes Thomas’ hand as he did to hers before. “I’ll stay with you.”

Thomas turns to her then, and it’s like the dawn starts to break over his face, expression clearing and eyes lighting up just a little. Even that much is a revelation. “Thank you, Edith,” he says. “You’re very kind.”

Edith wonders how much kindness Thomas has known, truly. His sister appears to love him, but what else is there for either of them here? Already she can tell Allerdale is a cold, isolating place, offering little in the way of companionship or warmth. Nothing like her home in Buffalo, nothing like any other place she has known. 

“Would you like to show me your inventions?” she asks, hoping to distract him further. Perhaps now that Lucille is gone she will be able to claim some of Thomas’ attention for herself. She wishes he would smile again.

After a moment, he does, though it’s tentative and small. “Yes,” he says. “I think I would.”

He pulls her over to his worktop. It’s littered with bits and pieces, little carvings and trinkets made of metal. “It’s not much,” he demurs. “I make things for Lucille sometimes, but she says I’m too fanciful. I should be more practical, or we’ll end up poor.”

Edith frowns, picking up one of the wooden carvings. It’s a small rocking horse, only the size of her palm, but earnestly done.

“That’s silly,” she says. “I think it’s lovely. Can I have it then?”

Thomas pauses, the apples of his cheeks blooming in a blush. “Yes, of course!”

“Thank you, Thomas,” Edith says, and kisses him on the cheek where he's charmingly red. There’s a moment where he looks shocked, and something else too, perhaps afraid, unsure. Like he doesn’t know what to do with affection given from someone other than his sister. 

But Edith is his sister now as well, or so Christopher Sharpe told her. Could she not kiss her brother on the cheek? Surely that was allowed?

“Come on, Thomas,” she says, and it’s her turn now to pull him, over to the corner where she was curled up earlier. “I’ll read to you.”

He balks a little, hesitating. “I’m not a baby, Edith. I’m older than you are!”

“It’s not a baby book,” Edith admonishes. “It’s Mary Shelley. Father said I shouldn’t read it, but Mother insisted.”

She says it simply, without thought, and is surprised to find that the remembrance does not hurt as much as it once did. Thomas smiles again, and it hurts even less.

**

In the days and weeks following, Thomas and Edith see very little of Lucille.

They see even less of Christopher Sharpe, who spends his time locked away in the library or in town, drowning himself in drink. Edith comes to recognize the smell of it on him, the few times he makes appearances in the kitchens. She does not remember him imbibing so freely in Buffalo, but she sees more and more as time passes that that man was perhaps someone entirely different, a mask skillfully worn. Thomas gives him a wide berth, so Edith does the same.

The days when Lucille joins them for breakfast are strange. She is older than Edith, and rather pretty in the same cold, severe way as her mother, but there are moments when she acts more a child than Edith ever has, ugly and snappish. Her moods come and go like the turning of the winter winds, and she watches Edith and Thomas together with bleak, hungry eyes. Edith doesn’t understand what she has done, or not done, to deserve such treatment. Sometimes she will take Thomas’ hand, defiant, and watch as Lucille’s face goes blotchy with emotion. 

And then Beatrice will call for her daughter, her voice shrill and demanding, and Lucille will have no choice but to take the breakfast tray she’s prepared and return to her patient. 

Edith and Thomas, in turn, go back to the nursery, to their ghost stories and trinkets and the tickling wings of the black moths that gather in the rafters, coming down now and then to search for warmth. It’s better there, safer. Even the ghastly moaning of the house as it bends and breathes around each gust of wind cannot touch them. 

They speak about what might be done once the season turns, the games they might play out in the rolling hills around Allerdale. At times it seems like Thomas might simply be humouring her, nodding along when he thinks he knows better about what the Sharpe children may and may not do, but she allows it. 

She will show him, if she has to bear the brunt of Beatrice Sharpe’s cane to do so.

**

It is much, much too late when Edith comes to realize that it is not the cane that she should fear. 

The day starts simply, with breakfast in the kitchen. Thomas has made porridge, stirred the pot carefully and sprinkled in a naughty dash of cinnamon, and the two of them sit at the creaking table and eat in pleasant silence. Edith reads her book, trying not to get porridge-sticky fingers on the pages, while Thomas draws rough diagrams on a scrap of paper. He’s got a smudge of ink on his cheek, and Edith giggles into her bowl when she realizes.

Thomas looks up, wide-eyed. “What are you laughing at?”

Edith takes a prim mouthful of porridge, saying nothing. 

“Edith!” Thomas insists. “Be fair, please tell me what’s so amusing!”

In reply, Edith licks her thumb and reaches out to smooth away the mark, giggling again. Thomas’ face goes red all over. He throws down his pen and starts to crumple up his page, only stopping when Edith stills his hand, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

“Don’t be silly, Thomas. You look like a very serious inventor. It’s charming.”

Thomas laughs then, a burst of sound that’s wild and free. It’s the happiest thing Edith has heard yet at Allerdale, and it warms her heart to see Thomas’ serious demeanour lifted.

“Shall I draw you something Edith?” Thomas asks. “Or perhaps a carving? I can do better than the rocking horse, I swear I can.”

Before Edith can think of answering, there’s a deafening crash, the sound of a metal tray hitting the flagstones and delicate china shattering.

Lucille stands in the entryway, her eyes fixed on the two of them, a mess at her feet.

She’s pale as death, save for two spots of hectic colour high on her cheeks. She looks almost as though she were about to cry.

Thomas jumps up, goes to his sister’s side immediately. “Lucille! What’s the matter?”

Her gaze flicks to him, and her expression crumbles even further. She reaches out to him with trembling hands, holds his face between her palms. “I’m fine,” she whispers, forcing the words out as though each one hurts to say. “I slipped, nothing more.”

She pauses, seems to collect herself a little. 

“I feel like it’s been so long since I’ve seen you, dear brother.” She laughs, but it is a broken sound, jagged and sharp. “Will you not make _me_ something instead?”

Thomas’ brow furrows, confused. “Instead?”

Lucille shakes her head, draws back from him. 

“Nevermind,” she says. “I should return to mother.”

Her eyes flick back and forth, like she’s thinking, furiously. She glances at Edith then, and her gaze feels like a hand clamped tight around her throat.

“Edith. Won’t you come upstairs with me? Mother wishes to speak with you.”

The request rings false, heavy with the same cloying, false cheer that Edith remembers from Christopher Sharpe that very first day at Allerdale. But Edith goes anyway, because she has no real reason to refuse. 

She follows Lucille up the first flight of stairs, then the second, then comes to stand next to her when she stops outside the closed door of Beatrice’s room. Lucille turns to her, touches the small of Edith’s back and draws her close to the bannister. She places both hands on Edith’s shoulders, like an older sister about to impart some important truth. Edith has never had a sister, but she imagines it is like this. Moments of discord, then moments of reconciliation. She prepares herself, happy for it.

“Dearest Edith,” Lucille says. “You and Thomas have become close, have you not?”

Edith nods. “I think so. I read him stories sometimes, and he’s given me one of his carvings. He’s very good.”

Lucille smiles, though her eyes remain cold. “He is indeed.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Edith waits for more, but nothing comes. Lucille stares at her, the same strange hunger that Edith has seen before blazing from her eyes. 

“He is special,” she says finally, “and he is _mine_.”

And then she pushes, hard, and Edith goes tumbling over the railing.

She falls.

**

If Edith were older, if she were stronger, and braver, perhaps she might have survived such a dreadful fall.

But she is a child, and she does not.

**


End file.
